


From Square One

by allfireburns



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: 5 Things, Gen, Minor Character(s), POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfireburns/pseuds/allfireburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Freddie almost got smacked by the arbiter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Square One

**i.**  
The arbiter knew from the start the American was going to be a problem. When he pitched a fit about every little thing - the room they were to be playing in, the presence of press, having his own damn _chairs_ \- it didn't bode well for the match itself.  
Still. He was the arbiter. He could be impartial. He could manage to not kill Frederick Trumper halfway through the match. Somehow.

**ii.**  
If Freddie said one more word about Soviets at the chess board, the arbiter thought to himself, he would _muzzle_ him. Actually, if he said one more word at all, he would muzzle him. Strategy and unsettling your opponent was one thing, but Freddie crossed the line to where the arbiter wanted to injure him.  
He would definitely be investing in muzzles at the next opportunity.

**iii.**  
Sometimes it wasn't so much _what_ Freddie did as the _way_ he did it. He'd do something just verging on illegal, and then smirk, like he _knew_ the arbiter couldn't call him on it without looking stupid, or as if he were partial to the Soviets.  
The arbiter clenched his jaw, fought not to glare at the stupid American, and kept his eyes on the board, just waiting for something he could really call him on.

**iv.**  
The arbiter tried not to flinch as the chess board went flying, flipped into the Russian's face and chess pieces scattering across the floor. He knew he did anyway, and the American rose to his feet, _screaming_ that Anatoly was cheating.  
"Mr. Trumper!" the arbiter interrupted, and reminded himself for the thousandth time that it was not allowed for the arbiter to knock sense into the players. Unfortunately.

**v.**  
It was true that there were only so many bars in Merano. Sure, they used to be German, which meant more bars than in _most_ tiny towns, but Merano was still... tiny. So the likelihood he'd run into the American here wasn't all that small. But still, the arbiter couldn't help but curse his luck that he'd found himself in a bar with the defeated champion who seemed to be nursing what was left of his pride with a steady supply of alcohol.  
"I could've won," Freddie said, clearly not realizing that the arbiter didn't care - and knew better. "I _should've_ won. You'll... you'll see, next year, when I get my title back. You'll see."  
The arbiter turned and walked out wordlessly, and prayed it would be the last time he'd have to deal with Freddie Trumper.


End file.
